


21st Century Burnout

by Superstitious



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Car Racing, BAMF Harley Keener, BAMF Peter Parker, Car Sex, Friends to Lovers, Harley keener is thirsty, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, M/M, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter parker is brooding, Resolved Sexual Tension, Secret Identity, Street Racing, Tired Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-01 20:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20264044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstitious/pseuds/Superstitious
Summary: When Benjamin Parker died he left Peter the only valuable thing he owned: a 1969 Ford Mustang 429 Boss. That was almost a decade ago. Now, Uncle Ben was probably rolling over in his grave because illegal street racing was 100% not the intended use of his car.Spiderman by day and king of the streets by night, a jaded Peter Parker is tired of being the hero. Harley Keener is the unfortunate mechanic who fixes Peter’s beautiful, abused car (and sometimes Peter).





	1. Burnout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Burnout - noun**  
burn·out | \ ˈbərn-ˌau̇t \
> 
> 1: The practice of keeping a vehicle stationary and spinning its wheels, causing the tires to heat up and smoke due to friction.
> 
> 2: Exhaustion of physical or emotional strength or motivation usually as a result of prolonged stress or frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Suggested listening:_  
\- 21st Century Liability by YUNGBLUD  
\- Ready, Aim, Fire by Imagine Dragons  
\- Born To Be Wild by Steppenwolf  
\- Pressure by Paramore

The roar of a familiar engine broke through the night’s silence and drowned out the soft rock music Harley had playing. He sighed and started collecting the tools scattered on the ground around him, tucking them into his tool-belt. Maneuvering a hand between himself and the BMW hovering above, Harley wiped sweat from his brow. The same hand raked through his damp hair in mild agitation. There would be no more work done on the BMW tonight.

Harley slowly rolled back and forth on his creeper as he waited for his visitor’s engine to shut off. Closing his eyes, he relished a little longer in the stillness of the night, knowing his midnight guest would surely break it.

A car door opened: Harley’s cue

He gripped the BMW’s undercarriage and propelled his creeper out from under it. “Parker, I swear to God, if this car comes in here one more time I’m gonna have to take it from you.” Harley sat up and wiped his grease stained hands on his jeans

Blue met brown when Peter shot Harley an apologetic smile. “Sorry, just having some…minor...car troubles.”

Harley snorted and looked toward the clock on the wall, “Ah yes, just your typical one am car troubles on a Thursday.” He turned away from Peter in favor of returning his tools to their proper homes, moving around the garage with ease. The sounds of Aerosmith filled the gap between their silence.

“Well, if you don’t like it, find me another mechanic who’s open past midnight and as good as you.” Peter’s scuffed up Converse nudged spare car parts out of the way while he walked. “Until then, you’re stuck with me, Keener.” Relocating to the opposite wall, he gave the other man space to work

“What was it this time? Brick on the road? Bird hit your car? Mysterious flying hubcap?” Harley huffed in annoyance as he piled up spare tires along the wall to make room for Peter’s vehicle. The other man’s horrendous lies were starting to become irksome. After nearly a year of working with him, you’d think Peter’s excuses would be getting better instead of worse.

“Hit a speed bump too fast. Oil filter might have bit the dust.”

That was…actually believable. Harley sighed and shook his head. He cleared out the last of the clutter turned to face Peter, running a hand through his unruly hair. “Pull ‘er inside and lemme take a look.

Peter didn’t need to be told twice and scurried out of the garage to fetch his car. A strong sense of longing overtook Harley at the sound of the engine revving. He would happily marry Peter’s Mustang if he could. In fact, any of Harley’s good-for-nothing relatives were welcome to die if they had a Boss 429 lying around for him to inherit.

When Peter pulled in, the stark whiteness of his Mustang stood out in Harley’s garage. Everything else around him was dark and metallic. Hell, even the BMW Harley had been working on was black, but not Peter’s car. That machine was godsent from above. The white exterior signified its angelic status and the black dual rally stripes gave it its wings.

“Have I told you how in love with this car I am?” Harley asked once Peter exited his vehicle for the second time that night.

Peter laughed, sharp and loud over the dulcet tones of Harley’s soft rock, “Many times. I’m still waiting for the proposal.” He shrugged off his leather jacket and tossed it inside the open passenger side window. While Peter watched the mechanic work, he pushed up the sleeves of his black hoodie.

Harley grabbed a filter wrench from one of his many toolboxes and headed towards the Mustang. He picked up his creeper as he passed by the BMW and dragged it over to the Boss. With every step, Harley could feel Peter’s watchful eyes following his every move. It made him want to crawl out of his skin. Harley hurried up his pre-inspection routine. Positioning himself on top of the creeper felt like a physical sigh of relief when Harley rolled under the Mustang and out of sight from Peter’s too sharp gaze. The faint sounds of Deep Purple crept under the car with him

Examining the oil filter Harley let out a long, low whistle. “How fast did you say you were going?” His voice was muffled by the three-thousand-pound machine in between them, but Peter’s enhanced hearing heard it clear as day.

“I didn’t.”

Harley rubbed a hand over his face. This game again.

“Alright, Parker,” Harley rolled himself out from under the car, “you might be fucked because my wrench no longer fits the ungodly shape your oil filter is in right now.”

Peter let out a groan of frustration and slid down into one of the plastic waiting chairs. “Can you fix it, or not?”

Harley walked over to his wall of tools and pulled down a diamond shaped car jack. He turned. “You’re lucky I have one of these babies. Should be able to compress the filter and rotate the thing off.”

Peter nodded, a cocky smile on his face, “See? This is why I can’t bring my car anywhere else.”

While Harley set up the jack, he let out a bark of laugh. From under the Mustang, Harley discreetly watched Peter out of the corner of his eye. He found that turning his head ever so slightly to the right gave him the perfect view of the enigmatic man.

Peter was slouched in one of the hard, plastic chairs set up for customers, elbows propped up on the arms of the chair as he sat deep in thought. Physically, Peter was in Harley’s garage, but mentally he was a thousand miles away. It was a stare Harley was well acquainted with, a look that came from being hardened by years of first-hand experience in how cruel the world could be. The dark circles under his eyes were so prominent that they looked like bruises on Peter’s pale skin. If the Mustang was a godsend, Peter was the fallen angel sent to protect it.

“Filter change is gonna cost you fifty bucks,” Harley called from under the car. He faintly heard Peter grunt in response. Blondie was on and Harley wished he could change the song.

Once Harley was done swapping out the filter he perused the rest of the car. Peter probably needed to get his brakes checked while he was here too. God only knew what he’d been doing to them since the last time they were changed. A surge of anger flared through Harley; this beautiful car was being run into the ground and Peter had the audacity to think Harley was none the wiser.

He propelled himself out from under the Mustang with much more force than necessary. In his peripherals, Peter jumped in surprise. Harley looked down and contemplated the wrench in his hand.

“Parker, do you think I’m stupid?”

Peter looked genuinely shocked as he responded, “No, you’re one of the smartest people I know.” It wasn’t said in a teasing or coy manner, but like it was a fact. The sun rose in the east, set in the west and Harley Keener was one of the smartest people Peter knew.

Harley didn’t let the flattery rattle him though and soldiered on, “We’ve know each other for basically a year now. Hell, you were even referred to me by Flash Thompson,” he angrily pointed at the Mustang, “and you don’t think I can tell this is a racing car?”

Peter sat up straighter in his chair, entire body stiffening in response to Harley’s admission.

“How much money did you put into ‘er? Three thousand in mods?” Peter started to shift uncomfortably in his seat but Harley wouldn’t let up, voice steadily getting louder, “Nitto tires, upgraded axels, rear ends, drive-shafts and you really thought...”

Harley stopped himself and turned away from Peter, pinching the bridge of his nose. He leveled his voice before speaking again, “Don’t even get me started on that police scanner on your dash. Let me guess,” he turned to fix Peter with an intense stare, “long range GPS?”

Harley was on a roll now. He walked closer to the Mustnag and gestured to its license plate, “Come on man, you even left the fucking dealer plates on to come here.”

Peter stood up abruptly. “Four thousand, actually,” he said dangerously low through gritted teeth.

Harley whistled high and long, leaning against a support pillar as he eyed Peter’s car. Four thousand dollars in racing mods. Damn. “At this rate, you’re gonna get yourself killed, Parker.”

Harley hadn’t noticed that Peter was stalking towards him now, too busy staring contemplatively at the Mustang. He halted his advance a foot away before he spoke, “But you’re not gonna tell anyone, right?”

Peter’s voice was pitched rough and low and right in Harley’s ear. He jumped in surprise. Any lesser man would have been afraid, but Harley never backed down from a challenge.

“What? No, of course not. Bad for business if I got a client arrested.” He scoffed and turned toward Peter. The other man’s expression was unreadable. “Wait, did you seriously think I was that stupid?”

Peter shrugged noncommittally. REO Speedwagon was playing in the background.

Harley was livid all over again. He knew the crews Peter was running with and no good ever came from them. “You are going to get yourself killed,” he lowered his voice and invaded Peter’s personal space, shoving a finger into his face, “and I refuse to be there to watch whatever suicidal kick you’re on.”

“Fuck you,” Peter spat at his feet as he reeled back and away. His glare was murderous and irritation was radiating off of his body in waves. Without another word, Peter headed towards the driver’s side door of his Mustang.

Harley still held his wrench in a death grip and had half a mind to use it on Peter’s thick skull. “Oh, fuck me? Sorry that one of us has to care about your sorry ass."

Peter’s response was to get inside his car and slam the door shut. With the spark of the ignition and roar of the engine, his Boss came to life. Harley refused to let the man leave and stood between Peter’s car and the open garage door, hands on his hips. The engine revved in in warning, but Harley wasn’t convinced. He crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side: a challenge. The men held a silent staring contest through Peter’s side mirror. A Bon Jovi song was starting on the radio.

“Harley, move.” Peter growled out his open window.

Harley would have been turned on by the situation if he wasn’t staring down the back end of Peter’s Mustang like a firing squad.

“Make me, asshole.”

Peter revved his engine again and Harley knew he had just lost whatever game they were playing. He managed to leap out of the way just in time for Peter to floor it in reverse. With a few flicks of his wrist and the hum of his transmission, the Mustang was back on the open road.

“You’ll be back!” Harley yelled at the retreating vehicle, brandishing his wrench into the night. Partially because it was true, Peter couldn’t stay out of trouble, and partially because Harley didn’t know what he’d do if Peter never came back.

The radio switched to a Triumph song. Harley walked back into his garage. While he returned the filter wrench to its proper home he happened a glance at his workstation. A one hundred-dollar bill displayed across it. Harley did a double take as his eyes bulged out of his head.

Goddamn Peter Parker for being the most cordial asshole he'd ever met.

Harley kicked a nearby bucket in frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been really into the whole 'heroes fall' arc and wanted to explore it a little with Peter. Parkner was an added bonus ;) This was not supposed to be a chaptered fic (LOL), but here we are. Chapter 2 is finished and 3 is 50% done, so y'all won't have to wait too long for the full story.
> 
> If you like what you see feel free to drop a comment, kudos or bookmark!
> 
> @Peter-Parkner on Tumblr


	2. Backpedal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Backpedal - verb**  
back·ped·al | \ ˈbak-ˌpe-dᵊl \
> 
> 1: The magical art of a driver easing out of the throttle to regain traction and avoid or stop tire shake. Difficult to achieve, the driver must anticipate the problem and pedal before the car is too far out of shape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read on to see our boys bond and the truth finally come out (or at least something close to the truth).
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for the positive responses! I feel like I took a gamble on this AU, but I'd like to think it paid off in the end.

Peter came back to the garage on Sunday.

To the rest of the world, Keener’s Auto was closed on Sundays. However, among those Harley Keener called ‘friends,’ it was common knowledge that he spent Sunday afternoons in the back of the shop working on new projects. Peter didn't want to disturb the man, so he kept the sound of his engine low as he parked the Mustang out of sight.

He was coming straight from Aunt May’s post-patrol. Every Sunday, Spiderman would patrol in the morning and then swing by May’s to spend the rest of the day as Peter Parker. It was the one day of the week when Peter allowed himself forget the obligations his second life demanded.

The Mustang’s engine had been off for some time now, but Peter still sat mulling things over. He had been an asshole when he left Harley’s on Thursday, plain and simple. A justified asshole, but an asshole nonetheless. If anything, he should have been grateful that Harley held his tongue for this long.

He shifted his gaze to the offending object sitting in his passenger seat, staring over the tops of his aviators. May always made something for Peter to take back to his apartment post-visit, and this week it was a plate full of chocolate chip cookies. Peter’s original plan was to binge the sweets at home (super metabolism and all) but now he wondered if Harley would appreciate them as a peace offering. Giving Harley more money was an option, but he had a feeling that the other man would take it as an insult.

After a brief staring contest with the baked goods Peter decided, _fuck it_, and grabbed them off of the seat. He exited his car and approached the back door to the garage, rapping his knuckles against it three times. Heightened hearing picked up movement from inside, so Peter stepped back and waited. A few beats passed before Harley opened the door with an illegible expression on his face.

His gaze continually alternated between Peter and the cookies, slight confusion flooding Harley’s features as he asked, “Peace offering or poisoned?”

Peter couldn’t help that genuine laughter that escaped him. Quite the picture he must have made, clad in scuffed Doc Martens and his signature leather jacket while holding a plate of chocolate chip cookies like a fucking girl scout. “I’ll have you know, my Aunt May made these and they’re delicious.”

Maneuvering his free hand under the saran wrap, Peter grabbed a cookie off the plate. He took a bite out of it while he looked Harley in the eye, proving they weren’t a threat to his health. In hindsight, the gesture might have been a little much since it turned out more sensual than Peter intended.

He was proved correct when Harley’s expression went a little slack jawed. The man quickly masked it with ease and rolled his eyes at Peter. “Whatever you say, Speed Racer.”

Harley moved out of the way to let him enter his domain. The back of the shop was a sacred place that not many got to see. Peter made sure to desecrate it by dumping May’s cookies on the nearest surface, not bothering to look where they landed. Peter could be polite, cordial even, but he was a far cry from the bumbling, naïve boy-scout he was seven years ago.

Harley sighed behind him as he moved the baked goods to a table with less power tools on it. Peter collapsed into the plastic chair nearest Harley’s work station and spread out, limbs taking up all the space within their reach. He threw his black leather jacket over the chair next to him while Harley crossed the room to a ratty refrigerator.

Peter traced his movements. Harley was clad in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, but through the ill-fitting garb Peter could still tell he had the build of a man who spent every waking moment working on hardened machines. He would also wager that Harley had an uneven tan from summers spent working under a merciless sun.

After a little rummaging, Harley pulled two beers from the fridge and gestured to Peter. “You want one?”

“What’re you drinking?” Peter was never one to turn down free alcohol.

The label was rotated to face Peter. “Victory Sour Monkey. If it’s not your style I can probably find some shitty Budweiser,” Harley’s mouth ticked upwards into a smug smile.

“No, that’s perfect.”

Harley liked strong beer with a little kick to it. Peter noted this new information for later. He took the bottle from Harley and maintained eye contact while cracking it open with his teeth. Harley cleared this throat and shifted uncomfortably before returning to his workbench.

“I’m assuming you came here to do more than drop off your Aunt’s cookies.” Harley resumed tinkering while he waited for Peter to answer.

He took a long sip from the bottle before speaking, “I’m sorry ‘bout Thursday night. I was an asshole.”

“Sorry about your behavior or sorry you aren’t a better liar?” Harley didn’t miss a beat.

His forwardness struck Peter. Then again, in the time he had known Harley Keener, subtlety was never his specialty. A lie was halfway formed on Peter’s tongue when a revelation struck him: Peter didn’t want to lie anymore. Not about this. Not to Harley.

“You’re right.”

It was Harley’s turn to be surprised. His hands slipped on the parts he was attempting to force together and they emitted a loud, metallic 'clank' as they collided. After eight months of lies Peter finally wanted the truth. Might as well ride the lightning, right?

“How long’ve you been racing?”

“Since I was 17.”

Harley hummed in response as he successfully bent the two parts together. “Did you really inherit that car from your dead uncle?”

Peter leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, head perched in his hands deep in thought. “Yeah, from my Uncle Ben. After my parents died he and Aunt May raised me as their own. It was the only thing the old man had left to give me.”

It’s not that Harley thought Peter was a liar, but he’d never imagined a situation where Peter would open up to Harley. He genuinely had no idea how to respond. Feelings weren’t his forte, sue him.

“That…sucks.”

Peter let out a sharp laugh, “Shit happens, right?”

Harley nodded in solemn agreement. “Why street racing?”

Here, Peter paused. He couldn’t tell Harley the whole truth, that during senior year he felt so goddamn out of place at Midtown Tech. While everyone else was planning college, internships and being the next Steve Jobs, Peter didn’t want to do anything. He had no clue what came next and it scared him. Peter naively thought he could sustain being Spiderman full-time, and look how that was working out so far.

“You don’t have to tell me if it’s too personal.” Harley said a little awkwardly, bringing Peter back to reality. He had been silent for too long.

“No, it’s fine.” Peter shook himself out of the thousand-yard stare and took a swig from his beer, “I, uh, actually stumbled upon the racing scene. I was looking for trouble and it found me.”

“Isn’t that how it always goes?”

“I was 17 and dumb, going through some shit and had no fucking clue what I wanted out of my life. I needed an outlet and found it in racing. Besides, look at this car,” Peter gestured to the Boss, “it’s a sin to let it sit and collect dust.”

Harley couldn’t argue with him there. He launched into the specs of Peter’s car and exactly why it was a sin to let a Boss 429 sit in a garage for the duration of its life. Peter was lulled back into thought by the soothing sounds of Harley’s rambling, an oddly strange comfort. He recalled the night in question when a 911 call changed Peter’s life.

While on patrol as Spiderman, an alert was broadcast over the scanners that officers needed assistance rounding up a street race. Peter could practically feel the cars come alive that night as he chased their drivers through New York City. It was an unbelievable high that left Peter yearning to feel the thrum of an engine beneath him. It started festering like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

A week after Spiderman foiled the illegal race, a 17-year-old Peter Parker arrived on the streets with a Ford Mustang Boss 429 and pent-up aggression to spare.

“Did you do all the mods by yourself, or have help?”

Harley’s question drew Peter back into the conversation. He took a long swig from his beer, nearly finishing it off. “I did the mods by myself. Was a bitch to get all the parts I needed.”

Harley let out a whistle, impressed that Peter pulled off the feat at such a young age. What Harley didn’t know about, however, was Peter’s proclivity for technology. Coupled with the months spent researching and reading factory service manuals, the Boss would never have been anything less than perfect.

Peter banished the memories from his mind to focus solely on Harley. “What about you? What made you decide to become a mechanic for criminals?” Peter’s tone was teasing but his words carried weight.

Harley faltered in his fiddling and set down his tools. He pulled off his gloves and reached under the saran wrap for one of May’s cookies to keep his hands busy. “It’s a long story.”

Peter dragged a nearby chair in front of him and propped his feet up, crossing his arms over his chest as he got comfortable. “We got nothin’ but time.”

Swiveling his chair around to fully face Peter, Harley spoke, “Well, if you insist…”

The rest of his sentence died in his throat upon properly seeing the beautiful, broken man sitting across from him. Under his jacket Peter had only worn a fitted, black shirt that showed off every upper body muscle he had. His crossed arms stretched the material tighter across Peter’s biceps and Harley’s eyes tracked all minuscule movements. He didn’t understand how the other man was so muscular, but Lord knew Harley wasn’t complaining.

Peter’s expression was neutral but his eyes silently teased Harley. An eyebrow arched, confirming Harley’s fear that Peter had caught onto his blatant staring. He broke into a shit-eating grin at Harley's continued loss of words, faux pas more pronounced in the silence of the garage.

Harley cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms to mimic Peter. He finished off his beer in one very long sip and started again. “I grew up in this town called Rose Hill, Tennessee. Think of the smallest town you know, and I guarantee Rose Hill is smaller. The most excitement we ever had was when the mayor’s wife slept with the chief of police…”

Peter laughed and Harley continued on with his story. He found his voice comforting and latched onto it like a lifeline, something to ground Peter in the moment. Between listening to Harley’s steady heartbeat and his soothing tone Peter was able to lull himself into something mimicking contentment.

\--

Harley heard the growl of a familiar engine approach from down the street. He sighed heavily beneath the Mazda he was changing the brake pads of. It was only Tuesday (technically Wednesday morning now) so this was a new record for Peter. Harley didn’t wait under the car this time though. He propelled himself out from under the Mazda before Peter arrived to get a head start on cleanup.

As soon as he heard the telltale closing of a car door Harley spoke, his back to the approaching man while he put his tools away, “I told you Parker, one more time and I am taking-”

He cut off when he finally got a good look at Peter. “Holy shit, what happened to you?!”

Peter had on a navy baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, but it wasn’t enough to cover the cuts and bruises littering his face. He still managed one of his signature smiles, even though Harley bet it was a painful feat.

“Got into a fight with another driver. It’s nothing, seriously.”

In reality, a new villain had popped up on Spiderman’s radar – a melodramatic scientist calling himself Doctor Octopus (the name made sense very early on in the fight). Whatever material Doc Ock’s tentacles were made of had penetrated Peter’s suit like tissue paper. His face was the proof, littered with cuts and superficial gashes. The worst was an ugly bruise adorning Peter’s left cheekbone, too large to be hidden behind his massive aviators.

Peter wasn’t particularly vain, but thank God for super-healing.

“Parker, I don’t know if you own a mirror but your face looks like someone used it for batting practice.”

Harley’s expression was gob smacked and he walked briskly toward the back, probably fetching an ice pack from the freezer. The same ice pack Harley had offered Peter on multiple occasions for bruised and bleeding knuckles after a street fight. Peter sighed heavily and sat down in his usual chair by Harley’s workstation. Pain shot up his side and he winced from his tender ribs, fairly confident at least one was broken. Movement in the back alerted Peter that Harley was returning. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his curls. No point hiding his face anymore.

The mechanic came into view shortly after with an ice pack in hand. He held it out to Peter and offered an apologetic smile, “Sorry you’re gonna lose your most marketable feature for a while."

Peter smirked, “I don’t think that’s quite my most marketable feature.”

Dumping his hat and jacket onto the seat next to him, Peter accepted the ice pack and held it against his cheek. The concept of ice at this stage in the game was pointless, but the gesture was nice. The feeling of biting cold against Peter’s skin was a little calming as well.

“Did you win?”

Peter chuckled through the pain. “Keener, you insult me by asking.”

Peter had won the fight alright. Once Karen located the mechanical weaknesses in Doc Ock’s tech it was fairly simple to dismantle the tentacles. Tony had been furious that he didn’t call for back-up, but Spiderman didn’t need it.

“Hope you came here for car troubles because, last I checked, I’m not an MD.” Harley leaned against his workbench opposite Peter, silently appraising the other man.

Peter looked a little sheepish as he spoke, “The Mustang and I are both pretty fucked up right now.”

Harley’s eyes narrowed. “Peter, what happened to the car.”

The Boss was still parked out front and shrouded by night so Harley couldn’t see the extent of any damage. Peter slouched down further into the plastic chair as he looked away from Harley. Ribs be damned.

“Raced some asshole tonight who brought his fancy Impala up from Florida. He decided to use nitrous for the first time and couldn’t handle the kick.”

What Peter didn’t mention was how he had laid the other man out on the concrete afterwards, enraged that his competitor endangered himself and everyone else on the street. Peter also slashed the Impala’s back tires for good measure to ensure he wouldn’t be back on the road anytime soon. The friendly neighborhood Spiderman who watched over New York City was nothing short of morally upright, cordial and pleasant at all times. Peter Parker, on the other hand, could be whatever he wanted.

“It completely killed his engine and he crashed into my passenger’s side. Door’s dented to hell now.” The ice pack was no longer against his cheek and Peter met Harley’s gaze, a little apprehensive, “Think you can fix it?”

Peter looked hopeful, an expression Harley had yet to see on the broody man. He was looking at Harley like he held all the answers to the universe, and it was almost too much in the moment. Exhaustion radiated off of Peter in waves and Harley kind of wanted to hug the other man. Weird, since Harley didn’t do hugs.

He pushed himself off the bench to escape Peter’s gaze. Pressing a button on the wall, the second garage door opened. Harley raised his voice to be heard over the sound of moving cogs, “Pull ‘er in and lemme take a look.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 will be a WHIRL. WIND. It'll also bump this fic up to an 'Explicit' rating. Big thanks to @peterparcouer on AO3/Tumblr (author of break up with your girlfriend, im bored) for helping a bitch out with writing the scene.
> 
> If you like the story drop a kudos, comment or bookmark below.
> 
> @Peter-Parkner on Tumblr


	3. Redline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Redline**  
red·line | \ ˈred-ˈlīn \
> 
> 1: (noun) The maximum engine speed at which an internal combustion engine or traction motor and its components are designed to operate without causing damage to the components themselves, or other parts of the engine.
> 
> 2: (verb) To ride or drive an automotive vehicle at its maximum engine speed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a very long roller coaster but I **refuse** to split it up. Read on to watch our hero fall and get picked back up by Harley. Will Peter finally get the hug he deserves?
> 
> Chapter 3 also brings the 'Explicit' rating. Big thanks to @peterparcouer on AO3/Tumblr for the smut scene I envisioned but couldn't write myself. You are the literal best and I can't wait to work together again - maybe just not like this.

It had been nearly three weeks since Peter raced while Harley worked on his Mustang. Even though his fingers longed to grip a steering wheel once again, the car damage had come at the perfect time. The rise of Doc Ock acted as a catalyst for _something_. New villains were popping out of every sewer and sidewalk crack in New York City, and it looked like there was no end in sight.

Tony was overseas with the rest of the Avengers for at least another week (the same Avengers Peter had stupidly turned down at 18), so it was up to Spiderman and Daredevil to keep the city safe. Sometimes, Jessica Jones or Luke Cage offered the occasional assist, but they refused to entangle themselves in the superhero gig. To accommodate for the vigilante drought, Daredevil had to start expanding his reach. Peter sighed as he ran a hand over his face in frustration, suit upgrades abandoned on his lab bench.

You knew it was bad when the Devil left Hell’s Kitchen.

“Peter,” Karen’s voice filled the laboratory, “A previous employee has attempted to take the executive floor of J.P. Morgan on Park Ave. Hostage situation in progress.”

Peter slammed a hand down on the table in frustration as he stood up. Looking down at his Stark watch, he saw it was currently the lunch rush. Foot traffic in the surrounding area would be at its absolute worst, as would be the risk of more casualties in any potential crossfire.

“Of fucking course there is…” he muttered to an empty room through gritted teeth.

\--

Three hours.

Three grueling hours Spiderman spent on the executive floor of J.P. Morgan doing everything short of begging Alan Graves to release his hostages.

It was all in vain.

Eight people were dead under Peter’s watch, including Alan. Spiderman was supposed to be what Peter was made for. His purpose in life. Tony Stark lived and breathed Iron Man and Peter Parker was supposed to follow the same path. Spiderman had failed before, sure, but never like this. He had never lost every single person depending on him.

Peter stared at his suit laid out on the lab bench. Blood covered the bottom half of it and none was his. They were stains acquired from each of Alan’s victims as Peter knelt down beside them and tried to find a pulse. Looking at the suit sickened him. _Wearing_ the suit had sickened him.

When Peter finally returned to Stark Tower he couldn’t bear to wear his suit inside, instead disrobing on the roof. Normally, when situations went sideways Peter called Tony, but Tony was an ocean away and Peter could only think of how disappointed the older man would be. He blanched at the thought, once again the 15-year-old boy who desperately wanted to be like his idol. A shiver ran up Peter’s spine; Tony took the suit from Peter once and he was sure the man had no qualms doing it again.

Pepper was the second person Peter would go to, but he couldn’t face her either. When Pepper wasn’t running a Fortune 500 company she spearheaded Spiderman’s public image. Peter had no doubt that she was doing damage control for the J.P. Morgan incident at this very moment up on the 93rd floor, should Spiderman face any backlash.

Another wave of nausea hit Peter and he stood abruptly, the force of it knocking his chair backwards. The silence in the lab overwhelmed him as his senses started going haywire. Peter was on the verge of a panic attack. He needed to leave the tower and he needed to do it _now_.

Peter needed his car back.

In record timing a black Audi S5 tore out of the parking garage of Stark Tower, Peter behind the wheel. Tony knew why his car was in the garage thanks to his all-seeing eye. Regardless, he still had let Peter pick a temp car from his Audi collection to drive (but under no condition race) until Harley finished fixing the Mustang.

The Boss was due to be finished any day now, and Peter sincerely hoped today was that day. Despite Harley's garage lying not too far outside of the city he still made it in record timing. The automatic transmission was as fluid as water to drive, and under Peter’s boot the gas pedal virtually merged with the floor of the Audi.

Harley heard a car rapidly approaching and straightened from under the hood of the cobalt GT-R he was inspecting. None of his regulars had called ahead, and the only car that habitually showed up unannounced was sitting ten feet to Harley’s left. Putting down his flashlight, he picked up a heftier wrench from his work bench. This wouldn’t be the first or the last asshole he’d have to chase out of his shop. 

The black Audi that pulled up to his garage doors threw Harley a little off kilter. His normal clientele stuck to cheaper, heavily modified racing cars, not fancy sports cars nearing six-figures. Harley walked to the front of the shop and leaned against the entrance, a firm grip on his wrench as he waited for the driver to step out.

A man hastily exited the Audi. Even under cover of night, Harley knew it was Peter. He could place the man’s silhouette anywhere after nine months spent routinely showing up after hours.

“I was gonna call you tomorrow to tell you she’s ready for pick up.” Harley said loudly as he returned his wrench to its toolbox.

“Where’s the keys?” Peter was blunt, tone hardened. He barely acknowledged the mechanic as he made his way toward his Mustang.

“Whoa, hey, what’s wrong?” Harley moved closer to Peter, arm outstretched toward the man in concern.

Peter’s senses were compromised, no longer able to distinguish friend from foe. The hair on Peter’s arms stood up as Harley approached and he lashed out. Before his brain could register what was happening his body reacted, grabbing Harley’s outstretched hand as leverage to pull him closer. Peter’s fist was clenched and reared back, ready to strike.

As Harley recoiled, prepared for a blow that would never come, Peter caught a glimpse of the TV over his shoulder. The 11 o’clock news was on and they were recounting the J.P. incident. He released Harley, who collapsed onto the ground as soon as he was free. Peter involuntarily stepped back, emotions washing over him like a high tide. From his position on the floor, Harley turned to look over his shoulder and see what caused the other man’s distress.

“That mess at J.P.? Were you there or something?” Harley was confused but saw that the headline greatly disturbed the other man. _Clearly, since he tried to punch you in the face_. “Awful, right? If Spiderman couldn’t save them, I doubt anyone could’ve.”

“Harley…” Peter’s voice came out soft, barely above a whisper.

Harley pulled himself off the ground and paused once he was upright. Peter looked physically ill and his voice took on a tone that Harley had never heard before.

“Peter, what’s wrong?”

Looking at Harley, an inexplicable need to tell the truth overwhelmed Peter. He couldn’t shoulder this burden alone anymore. In Harley’s eyes, he saw a mixture of genuine concern and fear.

Fear of Peter.

His heart sank. Peter couldn’t afford to lose Harley, the only person in his life who knew the _real_ Peter Parker beneath the suit.

To Tony Stark, Peter was still a good kid, the kid he had met at 15. Tony knew of Peter’s illicit activities but always chose to see past them, to the man that Peter could become. It irked him endlessly. To Pepper Potts, Peter was Spiderman and a future investment (or liability). To May Parker, Peter was her son. She never knew the Peter who emerged after dark, or the gory details of his escapades as Spiderman. May only knew the sweet boy who showed up at her front door every Sunday wanting to watch Star Wars and play Uno with her.

Harley Keener, however, knew Peter Parker the man. Peter had let Harley see him at his most exposed, stripped bare like a nerve. In return, Harley never judged him until he thought that Peter’s life might genuinely be in danger.

Peter made a split second decision and pushed up the sleeves of his leather jacket. His web shooters were exposed. Harley’s eyes bugged out of his skull.

“I am Spiderman.”

“Bullshit.”

Peter wordlessly walked over to the GT-R and lifted it up by the front end with one hand. He showed no signs of physical exertion, like the car was made of styrofoam. Harley’s jaw dropped_._

“You…you are Spiderman.” The words came out forced. Harley couldn’t breathe, couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “So today…the hostages…oh my God. Peter, I am so sorry.”

Harley was definitely prepared to hug Peter now, if only he’d put down the damn Nissan first.

He walked toward Peter gingerly, like the other man was a skittish animal who would run at any moment. Peter was shaking but not from lifting the car. Harley rolled the dice and wrapped Peter into a tight hug, the four inches he had over the other man acting in his favor. Peter stiffened beneath him but soon returned the embrace, hands coming up to grasp Harley’s t-shirt like it was crucial for his survival.

After a few more moments in Harley’s arms, Peter unraveled himself from the mechanic’s hold. He reached around Harley to grab the keys to his Mustang off the work bench. Harley’s eyes widened, realizing Peter’s intentions.

“Parker, there is no way in hell I am letting you drive in this state, let _alone_ race.” He made a grab for his keys, but Peter twisted away and took long strides toward his car.

“You can’t stop me, Keener,” Peter said weakly. _Please come with me,_ is what he meant.

Peter might have moved faster but Harley’s legs were longer. Despite Peter’s head start, both men reached the Mustang simultaneously. Peter grasped for the handle of the driver’s side door while Harley had a hand on the passenger’s. He looked at the mechanic with an unreadable expression.

“Harley, racing is all I got left. It’s all I’m good at. Please…please just let me do this.”

“I told you once and I’m telling you again: I am not gonna watch you destroy yourself.” Harley held Peter’s gaze from across the roof of the Boss. This time, Peter broke their staring contest first. He looked down at the door handle and sighed in defeat.

“Then get in, Keener.” _Please, I don’t want to be alone_, went unspoken.

Peter opened the driver’s side door and Harley followed suit.

\--

They drove in silence for a few miles before Harley spoke again, “Listen Parker, this might mean nothing coming from me,” Harley was wrong, it meant everything coming from him, “but today was not your fault. If you couldn’t save those people, I don’t think anyone could have.”

Throughout the past seven hours, Peter was confident he had successfully moved through all five stages of grief. Behind the wheel of his Mustang, with the thrum of the machine flowing through his veins and Harley beside him, Peter was reaching acceptance. Even if it was only temporary, Peter latched onto it and let it blossom.

He exhaled slowly, the first real breath he’d taken all day. His knuckles turned white as he kneaded the leather steering wheel. “You’re probably right, but I just…I can’t-”

Harley cut him off, “It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”

Peter released his death grip on the steering wheel. “Can you just...talk. I don’t care what you say, just say _something_.”

Harley’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Your voice is soothing!” Peter blurted out. He started to blush, the tender moment something he wasn’t used to. Harley’s smile encouraged him to continue though, “Please, I just…I need the distraction.”

Harley obliged and started rambling away while they drove. He didn’t think Peter really heard the words he said, but he didn’t mind if it made Peter feel better. 

The last few miles passed by in a blur before the duo reached their destination: an industrial district on the outskirts of New York City. This was familiar territory for both men. Harley had towed hundreds of cars from here back to his garage over the years, and Peter was the current reigning champion. Peter was also the best friend of Ned Leeds, race referee and resident circuit man who kept the police at bay.

As they neared the city limits, Harley witnessed Peter’s personality change. Between Harley’s rambling, the rumble of his Mustang and the comfort of the racing scene, vulnerable Peter from an hour ago was replaced by the Peter who dominated the streets. The Peter who showed up to Harley’s garage at 2 am with bleeding knuckles and a smile sharp enough to cut glass. If the man was still perturbed, he hid it expertly. 

Harley wouldn’t lie, it was kind of hot to watch.

“Peter Parker, back from the dead.”

Both men were barely out of the Mustang when a voice called out. Peter’s lip curled into a snarl while Harley simply sighed. Cue Flash Thompson, resident asshole with a knack for making enemies.

“Last time I saw you, your face looked like roadkill. Thought you might’ve finally fucked off and died,” Flash continued, pushing himself off the hood of his Camaro and walking toward the two.

“Hey man, you better back off.”

Ned was pushing his way through the crowd to get to Peter. He shot Flash a glare that fixed the man on the spot. The only reason Flash wasn't entirely banned from the scene was because, unfortunately, he was an amazing driver who brought in the majority of revenue behind Peter.

Flash held his hands up in surrender, though his expression still had ‘mischief’ written all over it. “No offense meant Leeds, just some good old-fashioned shit talking.”

Peter barely acknowledged Flash in favor of tugging Ned into a warm hug. The two men then pulled off one of the most complex handshakes Harley had ever witnessed before Ned dragged Peter off to the side.

Once out of ear-shot, Ned lowered his voice, “Hey man, are you sure you wanna be here? I saw the news and, damn Pete. Just damn.” Ned was among the few who knew of Peter’s…extracurricular activities.

“Surprisingly, I don’t want to be anywhere else right now.” The truth in the statement shocked even Peter.

Ned returned the grin, but still looked slightly concerned. Peter rubbed a hand over his face. He was far from fine, but here and now, he was ready to do what he did best. Tomorrow, in the light of a new day, Peter would deal with the aftermath of J.P.

“This is my way of working through it, okay? Just trust me.”

Ned nodded. “Good to have ya back buddy. Was afraid you’d finally gone straight or something and left us all behind.”

Peter couldn’t help but laugh. He was fairly confident going completely ‘straight’ was something he would never do. That’s what Spiderman was for. Peter looked over at Harley, who was leaning against the hood of his Mustang, as he spoke, “Not planning on it anytime soon.”

Ned smiled at his best friend. “You here to race, or what?”

Peter shot him a wolfish grin before turning around. “Hey, Flash! Ready to put your money where your mouth is?”

\--

Harley’s sole purpose of the night was to put Peter at ease, and he’d say that goal was more than accomplished. So _why in the name of God_ was Harley still sitting in the passenger seat while Peter was getting ready to race_._ Harley Keener didn’t race cars, he fixed them. Harley had seen firsthand the aftermath of these races. He knew better than to take the chance of, well, death.

It’s not like Peter strong-armed him into the passenger seat either - Peter gave Harley ample time to exit the vehicle and watch from the sidelines. Some of Harley’s shop regulars even offered to drive him to the finish line so he could watch from there. Yet, here he sat. He trusted Peter though, so Harley had no doubt that they would be okay.

The thought struck him like an epiphany and Harley turned to look at the man beside him. _Harley trusted Peter_, had trusted him long before Harley knew Peter was Spiderman. The dramatic revelation did little more than reaffirm Harley’s notion that Peter was a trustworthy person. Speaking of which, Harley would definitely need to talk to Peter about the whole ‘Spiderman’ business, but that was for tomorrow.

“You sure you wanna do this?”

Peter turned to meet the mechanic’s gaze as he pulled the Mustang up to the starting line, engine rumbling contentedly after being dormant for so long. Peter was blissfully unaware of the multitude of thoughts swirling in Harley’s head.

“No,” Harley said after a pregnant pause. Peter’s smile started to falter so Harley hurriedly added, “But I trust you.”

Peter’s enthusiasm returned in full as he continued staring at Harley. He revved the engine again for dramatic effect, a dangerous gleam in his eye. “Then get ready for the best twelve seconds of your life.”

Harley snorted and rolled his eyes, “Sounds a lot like my ex-boyfriend.”

Flash was yelling something at the pair as he pulled his Camaro up beside them, probably obscenities, but Harley couldn’t hear over the roar of the Peter's engine. It didn’t matter anyway, not when Peter was smiling like he was the king of the world.

Harley definitely missed Ned signal the beginning of the race because the next thing he knew, Peter shifted into gear and popped the clutch, launching the Mustang forward. Harley’s sharp intake of breath was lost in the roar of the engine. His fingers tightened around the handle above the door.

In the driver's seat, Peter’s mouth lifted upward into a wicked smile as he shifted through the gears with ease, superhuman strength making the gearshift putty in his hands. _God, had he missed this. _Peter’s heightened senses ensured his Mustang came alive as he drove. The car’s electrical pulse thrummed through his veins and the ebb of the engine beat as strongly as Peter’s own heart. The Boss told Peter what it needed and he gave it in kind.

Perfect symbiosis.

Between Peter and his Mustang, Flash’s Camaro never stood a chance. Peter hit every shift effortlessly and secured his victory. As Peter’s Mustang hurled over the invisible finish line he flipped off Flash and kept driving. Through Peter’s rear-view mirror he saw Flash make a U-turn to return to the start. Normally, Peter would follow him back to gloat and collect whatever money had had wagered, but not tonight.

Tonight, Peter’s world was narrowed down to his Mustang and Harley, who was grinning like a madman next to him. His senses were dialed up to a ten, but the adrenaline always made it easier for Peter to filter out the distractions. If he focused on the purr of his engine and the steady beating of Harley’s heart, Peter no longer heard the neon thrum of New York City. The voice in his head that fed him a constant stream of worries was silenced temporarily.

Peter’s foot pressed harder on the gas pedal. He felt alive.

After a few more city blocks of reckless driving Peter downshifted and let the Mustang slow at its own pace. The rumbling of the Boss’s engine steadily decreased until it was no longer a monster waiting to be unleashed. Silence once again filled the interior of the car.

“Parker, pull over.” Harley’s voice was calm and level, but chancing a glance at the other man Peter could see that he was wound tighter than a coil. The tension was rolling off of Harley in waves. Harley hadn’t said anything since the race and Peter didn’t even bother to make sure he was okay.

“Shit,” Peter swore harshly under his breath and turned off the main road. Peter wasn’t really sure where they were, or if it was even legal to park here (was this a one-way street?), but that wasn’t the pressing issue.

He immediately turned to Harley and the words tumbled out of his mouth, “Harley, I am so sorry I knew I shouldn’t have made you come with me,” he started raking his fingers through his curls, “oh my god, I always fuck everything up-”

Peter was abruptly cut off by Harley hurling himself over the center console to attack Peter’s mouth with his own. The feeling of having his arms full of Harley definitely wasn’t unwelcome, the man was solid muscle from days spent working on machines. It especially wasn’t unwelcome when Harley’s tongue worked its way past Peter’s lips and battled his for dominance. Peter maneuvered a hand out from between them to weave his fingers through Harley’s hair. He gently twirled the blonde strands before giving them a sharp tug. The desperate sound Harley made brought Peter back to reality and he used his grip on Harley’s hair to pull him back.

“It’s just…the adrenaline..._Harley_,” Peter said his name while sternly, but gently pushing the older man back across the center console and away from the assault he was launching on Peter’s lips. “It’s just the adrenaline high, you don’t really want this.” Peter looked away, “You don’t want me.”

“Normally, I can’t get you to say more than three words and you chose _now_ to finally start talking.” Harley huffed impatiently and shot him a pleading look. His voice was rougher than Peter had ever heard it. “Peter, I’ve known you for a _year_. If you don’t think I’ve been dreaming about this since week two, you are sorely mistaken.”

Peter took a moment to search Harley’s face, assessing the validity of the statement. The sincerity of Harley's heavy gaze was starting to win Peter over. Both men’s labored breathing was the only sound that filled the interior of the car. Peter starting leaning back in when Harley suddenly recoiled of his own volition.

“Wait, oh my god I’m such an ass. Do _you _even want this?” Harley ran a hand through his hair as he attempted to compose himself. “You’re the one who went through literal hell today, and now I’m the asshole who’s taking advantage of you.”

Peter laughed, unexpectedly loud in the cramped interior of the car. “Well, I forced you to come with me.” His expression suddenly turned serious. “I want this,” Peter locked eyes with Harley, "and I've wanted this for a while now too."

Harley let out a relieved sigh, not even aware he had been holding his breath. “This isn't just because you’re Spiderman, or from anything else that happened tonight. I want you because you’re Peter Parker. The only consistent pain in my ass the past nine months.”

Peter offered Harley a small smile. There was nothing sexual about Peter's gesture, but it was so genuine and full of emotions that he couldn't say. Harley involuntarily shivered, body still wound tighter than a spring as he shifted uncomfortably against the leather seat. They stared at each other for a little longer before something snapped, and both men moved in sync.

Their lips meet again in a desperate crash before they fell into a frenzied rhythm. Peter’s hands slowly crept down to Harley’s ass, pulling him closer while he ground his own hips up. A spark of heat flashed down his spine when Harley faltered and let out a loud moan, lost in a pleasurable haze. Peter took the opportunity to lick his way into Harley’s mouth. Their lips moved easily against each other, bruised and wet from spit before Harley pulled away to tug at Peter’s shirt.

“Off, off, come on,” He said as his hands desperately gripped the material. Peter quickly sat up to pull it off in one fluid motion, laughing at the other man’s eagerness. Harley huffed, “I have been waiting nearly nine months to touch you.”

Peter didn’t get a chance to reply before Harley’s warm hands attached themselves to his abs while his mouth left a trail of kisses down his neck. Peter’s hips tilted upwards when he felt the other man’s hands start a downward journey toward his waistband. A soft whine of want escaped Peter’s lips when the button of his jeans popped open and a hand slipped down to cup him through his boxers. Harsh breaths escaped his mouth, head tilted to the side to allow Harley easier access to his neck as he kneaded Harley’s ass to distract himself from the feeling of Harley’s hand on his dick. 

“Oh, fuck, Harley,” came out in a groan. Peter was completely wrecked as he watched Harley spit into his hand before guiding it back down and inside Peter’s boxers, gripping him firmly.

Peter moved his own hands back up to Harley’s hair and tugged harshly, pulling his head back and peppering wet kisses along his throat before reattaching their lips. He kept his hold on Harley’s hair as the other man began to stroke him, precome and spit slicking the way.

“Do you have any idea what that race did to me?” Harley asked, pulling away.

Peter whined again in a combination of frustration and want before he began sucking a mark into the junction where Harley’s neck met his shoulder. Harley moaned as his free hand flew up to grasp Peter’s curls. While Harley was distracted, Peter managed to get an arm between their bodies and laid a heavy hand over Harley’s dick, palming it through his jeans.

“Watching you drive, nailing the sweet spots between each shift. You were fucking made for this car. Oh God, leaving Flash in the fucking dust, and Jesus, Peter, your arms.” Harley's hand moved from Peter's hair to his bicep, squeezing for emphasis.

He lost sight of what he was talking about when Peter’s hand finally slipped into his jeans, wrapping his fingers around Harley without a second thought. Harley’s hips hitched forward and his breath caught when Peter’s thumb circled the head of his dick before he started stroking him in quick motions. Harley’s brain went offline, stopping his own ministrations to Peter. In that moment all he could think was _God, yes, finally_.

“Hmm, what were you saying about my arms?” Peter teased, stopping all movements to pull back and look at Harley.

Peter’s eyes drank in the sight of him, his eyes clenched shut and cheeks flushed pink as he struggled to keep himself upright through the pleasure. Peter tried to commit every detail to memory, watching as Harley struggled to open his eyes between labored breaths. When blue finally met brown, Peter saw mischief flash through Harley’s eyes and twisted his lips into a smirk.

“They looked so good stretching out your sleeves, flexing every time you shifted gears,” Harley said, somehow pressing his body even closer to Peter’s. “Almost couldn’t stop myself from leaning over and sucking you off right then.”

Peter’s mind whited out and he thanked every god in the universe that Harley’s hand was no longer stroking his dick. Harley touching him coupled with the image of giving him road head would have sent Peter straight over the edge. 

“Next time,” Peter’s voice was strained.

Before he could stop himself, Peter tightened his grip around Harley and resumed stroking him at a maddening pace, leaning forward to bite hard on his neck over the mark he’d made previously. The groan Harley let out was smothered against Peter’s shoulder, nails raking down Peter’s back and come splashing against his chest. His hips stuttered as Peter continued working him through his orgasm.

Harley sagged against Peter for a few moments, breathing reduced to harsh pants before he pulled back and smiled lazily at him. “Next time.”

He leaned down again to kiss Peter, licking his way back into his mouth as his hand traveled back to the front of Peter’s jeans. Harley’s actions had a little less finesse than earlier. His hand still shook from the aftershocks of his orgasm as he wrapped it back around Peter, but Peter didn’t mind if the moan he let out against Harley’s lips was any indication.

“C’mon Peter, wanna see you come,” Harley said, low and heavy as he sped up his hand. His mouth was right against Peter’s ear.

Peter whined, one hand coming up from Harley’s waist to roughly cradle his jaw and tilt his head to the side. He sucked a fresh mark into the underside of Harley’s jaw, a sensitive spot he had unintentionally found earlier. Harley’s dick twitched in an attempt to get hard again. 

“Come, baby.” 

Peter did. All it took was a few more strokes and whispered words. Peter hurriedly tugged Harley’s shirt up and out of the way seconds before he came all over his stomach. A moan tore its way out of Peter’s throat before he went boneless in the other man’s arms, utterly spent. Peter’s hands fell to rest on Harley’s waist and his head stayed tucked into the other man’s neck.

After wiping off the come from his hand, Harley brought it up to rest at the nape of Peter’s neck. His fingers tangled loosely in the curls held there. They sat in silence for a few moments, catching their breath and enjoying each other’s company, neither quite ready to disturb the quiet peace. Harley slouched back into the passenger’s seat.

“Hey,” Peter said a few moments later, pulling back to rest his head against the headrest, grinning teasingly at Harley, “Best twelve seconds of your life?”

Harley sighed in exasperation and rolled his eyes, “Just drive Parker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might have to wait a little longer than usual for the last chapter (sorry!), so subscribe to make sure you don't miss it!
> 
> If you like the story so far, please leave a kudos, comment or bookmark!
> 
> @Peter-Parkner on Tumblr


	4. Apex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Apex - noun**  
\ ˈā-ˌpeks \
> 
> 1: The point in a turn where the car is turning at its sharpest. The apex is usually the slower part of the turn; the car slows down into the apex, and then accelerates out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it guys! My beloved street racing AU comes to an end :')
> 
> Thank you all for reading and sticking with me this far. Words cannot describe how much I appreciate all the lovely comments I've gotten both on here and Tumblr.

“How do I look?” Peter asked as he walked out from the back of Harley’s garage. His voice was muffled behind a face mask.

Harley stood up from his kneeling position on the ground and turned to face him. A laugh erupted before he could stop himself, “When I said I wanted to see you in a suit, this isn’t quite what I meant.”

Peter threw him a lopsided smile. “I don’t know. I think I could make this work.”

“We look like a Hazmat team. Sorry handsome, but there’s no way even you can make this work.” Harley prepared to put his goggles on. “Last chance, sure you wanna do this?”

Peter scoffed, “We already stripped and sanded down the frame. I think it’s impossible to go back now.” He looked to where the frame of his Mustang sat a few feet away, completely dismantled and devoid of paint.

“Hey, don’t doubt my skills. I could totally bring back the white and black stripes. I fool collectors all the time.”

Peter quirked an eyebrow from beneath his goggles. “Did you just confess to Spiderman that you sometimes fake vintage cars?”

Harley pulled his face mask up as he spoke, “I plead the fifth.”

Today was the third day spent working to repaint Peter’s Mustang. Fifteen hours of labor had already been put in just to prep for the first base coat. Ned volunteered to help them get the frame off on the first day, but after that he tapped out. He couldn’t bear to see the Boss lose its original paint job.

Ned was being dramatic was just being dramatic. Sure, only 829 models of the 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 429 existed in the world, but it’s not like Peter would ever be in the market to sell. Besides, blame the asshole from up North for giving him the idea to repaint his car. If the other driver hadn’t been a sore loser and keyed the Boss, he wouldn’t be in this position in the first place (Peter had retaliated in kind by taking a baseball bat to the man’s head and taillights).

Harley picked up his spray gun and attached the nozzle. “You sure red is the way you wanna go? You’ll be a magnet for every cop in the city.”

“Definitely,” Peter picked up his own spray gun and contemplated the metal in front of him. “I can handle the cops any day. Besides, it’s time for a change.”

Peter loved the Mustang but it had never felt completely his. It felt like something borrowed, like it was still partially Uncle Ben’s.

The color Peter eventually settled on was a deep red. At the time, he was unaware that his car would soon match the Spiderman suit until Harley pointed it out a few days later. Peter smiled at the thought. The Mustang and his suit represented two very different aspects of his life, but both were equally important.

Harley resumed his position on the floor to start spraying the car doors while Peter covered the smaller pieces of the frame. They worked in relative silence for the next few hours as they sprayed on the first and second base coat. The concentration needed for the task at hand coupled with the paint fumes floating through the air made conversation hard.

Since Harley was the actual professional, he insisted on doing the larger parts of the frame. A good decision in the end because Peter ended up devoting two hours to sanding away mistakes and starting over. To Harley’s credit, he only made fun of Peter a handful of times throughout the day.

“Hey, am I invited Abi’s sweet-sixteen next weekend?” Peter stopped spraying momentarily to turn toward the mechanic.

Harley also stopped mid-spray, “Yeah, I was gonna ask if you wanted to come tonight over dinner.” His eyebrows knitted together in confusion, “Wait, how did you know next weekend is her birthday?”

The spray gun was abandoned as Peter tugged up his goggles. The elastic inadvertently pulled at his curls and he huffed impatiently, attempting to free his hair from the offending headpiece. Harley shook his head and laughed as he waited for Peter to continue.

“You told me like, two months ago. Remember?” The goggles were safely off his head and now Peter looked equally confused. “I know you did because I marked it in my calendar.” He started looking around for his phone.

“Two months ago…” Harley trailed off in thought. After some time pondering, his eyes widened as he realized when the night in question was. “Oh my god, you actually listened to me?”

“Uh, yeah, Keener. I was having a crisis not going deaf.”

Peter stared at Harley incredulously. He knew he was a mess after the J.P. incident, but how could Harley think he didn’t hear a word he had said during their car ride. Peter's mouth curled into a smug smile, recalling their conversation that night.

“I thought it was adorable when you explained to me for ten minutes why the Star Trek reboots were integral installments to the series.”

Harley groaned and pulled off his face mask, spray gun long forgotten. “Gotta say Parker, I really didn’t think you were paying attention to me.”

“Harley, it’s impossible not to pay attention to you.”

A stupid smile spread across Harley’s face before he could stop it from forming. He walked closer to Peter. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Peter Parker?”

Peter laughed and took off his own mask. He started moving toward Harley to help close the distance. The noises their plastic suits emitted as they moved were the only sounds in the garage. Peter leaned up as Harley bowed his head so their lips could meet in a chaste kiss. He was open to taking things further and abandoning his car until Harley’s goggles bumped into his forehead. Unlike Peter, Harley still hadn’t taken them off.

That, coupled with the feel of Harley’s plastic suit under Peter’s fingers reminded them both of their surroundings. Harley stepped away to put some room between them and cleared his throat, “So, you’re good for next weekend? No, uhhh, Spiderman stuff?”

Peter’s forehead creased and his eyebrows scrunched together. “Harley, I’m your boyfriend, of course I’m not gonna to miss your sister’s birthday!”

“Fair point.”

“Besides, between the Avengers and Daredevil, I think the city can go a day without Spiderman.”

Harley glanced at the clock hanging on the adjacent wall of his garage. “You wanna finish the second coat and call it a day? We should have just enough time to go back to yours and get ready for tonight.”

Peter smiled wickedly and advanced toward the other man, entering Harley’s personal space once again. He dropped his voice an octave, “We could do a lot more than that.”

Laughing, Harley pushed his boyfriend away and put his face mask back in place. “Not if you keep fucking up the paint job.”

Peter pulled his goggles back on and picked up his spray gun. “You’re gonna pay for that later, Keener.”

\--

Harley was getting dressed in Peter’s room while the younger man attempted to style his hair in the bathroom. A noble, but fruitless effort in Harley’s opinion. He heard the door open behind him and Peter stepped out.

“So, how do I look?”

Harley dragged his eyes away from his reflection in the mirror, own hairstyle abandoned, to instead drink in the sight of Peter. “Now that is the kind of suit I’ve been dyin’ to see you in.”

The other man was dressed in maroon, tailored trousers and a matching blazer with a white oxford underneath. A simple black tie and loafers completed the outfit. Harley needed to send an Edible Arrangement to whichever tailor Tony Stark called in because hot damn Peter Parker. With Peter’s muscles so heavily accentuated, Harley wasn’t quite sure he’d last the night. His mouth went dry as he continued staring at his boyfriend. Red really was Peter’s color.

Dragging his gaze back up to Peter’s face, Harley saw the man’s mouth moving; he must have been saying something. He snapped out of his daze, “Sorry, what?”

Peter let out an exasperated sigh, but Harley could tell he was secretly pleased at the reaction his outfit garnered. “Can you help me with these cuff links?”

He held them out to Harley. They were little silver spiders and suspiciously close in design to the one that adorned Spiderman's chest. “Parker, you are not subtle at all.”

“Hey, these were a gift from Tony! Besides, we all know that if I had a say, they would’ve been 24 karats instead of silver.”

Harley didn’t dignify that with a response.

Once a year, Stark Industries hosted a New York gala with all its employees, scientists, collaborators and investors to showcase completed projects and introduce upcoming ones. Tonight, Harley was accompanying Peter as his date. Peter was already responsible for everything Spiderman related, but as of two months ago, Stark Industries had made it official. He was the lead developer in SI’s Research and Design Division on the Spiderman suit, including any and all technology the hero used. Due to this, Tony had insisted that Peter come to this year’s gala.

Tony took the J.P. Morgan incident as an opportunity for an intervention of sorts for Peter. He needed something of his own aside from physically being Spiderman to take some of the weight off his shoulders. Peter had tried to defend racing, but Tony refused to accept it as his secondary outlet. After hours of back and forth, they both settled on Peter slowly integrating into Stark Industries.

Peter took a moment to appraise Harley while the other man continued to fiddle with his cuff links. He was dressed in an all grey suit with pants tailored to perfection over a white button up. His bowtie (Harley refused to wear anything else) matched Peter’s maroon suit. Peter knew for a fact that Harley also had on suspenders under his suit jacket. He could hardly wait to take them off the other man after the event.

The two were only inches apart as Harley finished fastening his cufflinks. Peter looked up at Harley through thick lashes. When the mechanic met his gaze and saw Peter’s intentions. He stiffly backed away.

“No, Peter. We have exactly ten minutes until Happy gets here and we are not going to be late to this gala.”

“Audi’s parked outside. Tell Happy I’m driving instead. I’ll get us there on time, promise.”

“Still no,” Harley said as he moved around Peter to grabbed his watch off of the dresser. He affixed it to his wrist and shot Peter a stern glare. Peter pouted but obliged.

Both men moved through Peter’s apartment with ease as they made their way to the front door. Harley grabbed his wallet, phone and keys as they passed by the living room and Peter followed suit. He hesitated before also taking his black leather jacket from where it hung off the back of a dining room chair.

Harley paused, one hand on the door knob. “Seriously, Parker?”

Peter shot him an innocent look. "What, this jacket is practically my signature.” It was also a great source of comfort for Peter, though he'd never admit it out loud.

“Whatever you say, Speed Racer.” Harley smiled fondly at his boyfriend and opened the apartment door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed reading the story as much as I did writing it, please consider dropping a kudos, comment or bookmark below!
> 
> @Peter-Parkner on Tumblr


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